Sunday January 23, 2011 7:33am
Bad taxicabs and fake bloodbaths
I arrive at a town square of some sort. In a small car-port of sorts, with a stone table in its center, a man done up as almost ancient Bagdad robes is signing an autograph in a magazine while verbally insisting his being a famous actor to the owner of the issue. Also done up slighty Arab or Bedoin style robes, the signer's apparent daughter seems to be a helpless waif, and (with a coy British accent), she manages to aquire from the magazine owner a few dollars for the signature. The owner relents and gives her a few singles, but as his doubts grow, the girl becomes beligerent and all but chases him off, her British accent gone.
I pass this confrontation and cross the courtyard and meet up with some Dream Character friends.
For some reason we plan to infultrate some villianous gang so as to bring them down. We enter a door at the far corner, go up some stairs but the door is ajar; never a good sign. The two men enter and gasp in horror. As I enter they are farther in, aghast at some sort of vicious killings that have taken place. A hand lies on the floor; one of the men goes to touch it.
"No no, don't touch it!" I quietly exclaim at him. "Don't touch anything: fingerprints!" They continue in as I look at the hand, cut off several inches beyond the wrist, and I notice it is hollow. I point out to the men that it's fake, and that we'd best leave.
We split up, and I head down through the rest of the building to depart from a different exit. My phone chimes to indicate a VoiceMail message (a function my actual phone does not have, nor does my phone normally have a small red button through which to immediately access my voice mail). I press the red button and it is Jeff Olan Casting, notifying me I have a gig the next day for Man On Fire 2.
I am concerned that it may be an early calltime, but the information continues, giving noon calltimes to various people. Jeff gets to mentioning me, and it goes silent.
No no no, I worry, that the message cut off and I cannot get the information.
Suddenly I hear someone in the background saying to Jeff, "Say it, say it..."
Jeff had paused, out of simultaneous embarressment and amusement (he's also trying not to laugh), indicating I am playing a grandmother... Listening to the recording, I figure Pffft: I've done stranger gigs.
I have a piece of paper that has strange sigils on it. I wonder whether the printed word is gone and we're going back to hieroglyphics. I get back to whether the man and young woman are scamming for money, his giving fake autographs, et al. A taxi-cab is waiting for me, and the autograph man provides me with three tribal shields that he places in the back seat for me. I sit up front with the cabbie, but after a while he drifts so far to the left as to freak me out. Soon he is all but going up on the left curb; thankfully there are no oncoming cars and the long stretch of road.
"What are you doing?!" I shout, grabbing the wheel, turning it to return us to the right lane. "We not in [effing] England...!"
Finally I demand he pull over and let me out; reluctantly he does so as I accuse him of being drunk. I get out and retrieve from the back seat the surprisingly light-weight shields. The driver is fumbling about, and I await his daring to charge me for the ride. Instead he gives me a handful of money, which I presume is to keep me from notifying anyone about his driving. I take it and walk away, the area closely resembling Claremont Avenue in Montclair [New Jersey] as it reaches Bloomfield Avenue. I walk in the directions we've come, so south on "Claremont," the shields under my arm as I glance at the "money" the cabbie gave me. The notes are not uniform. One is a "new" ten dollar bill, with very different fonts than with which we're familiar. Another seems to be a money order already made out with my name using very good handwriting, though I neglect to notice the amount.